He
called me a man hater.I
wondered if that could be true.For
hatred never was a feel I knew.And
then I think perhaps it might bethat
he hated what he sawwhen
he reposed in my reflection.The
lack of trust imbeddedin
experience. The pulling backfrom
intimate embrace. The waymy
words would trace the truthof
all that men made of my youth.The
cost of all the pain they left behind.A
wanderer, too lost to live in time.Worn
around the edges. Frazzledby
their constant dazzling. Sunkinto
the deep of their depressions.Reaching
out to find there's no one there.He
called me a man hater.Then
told me that he wasn't one of them.And
walked away, in tandem with them all...